Secrets and Sensibilities: A Regency Romance Mystery (The Lady Emily Capers Book 1)
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Authors: Regina Scott
Secrets and Sensibilities
by
Regina Scott
Book 1 in the Lady
Emily Capers
© 1999
Regina Lundgren
First edition published 2000 by
Zebra Regency
Second edition published January
2013 by Regina Scott
Third edition published October 2013
by Regina Scott
Fourth edition published September 2015
License Note
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author’s work and livelihood.
When art
instructor Hannah Alexander agrees to accompany four of her students on a
country house visit before Easter, she never dreams of entering into a
dalliance with the owner David Tenant, the handsome new Earl of Brentfield. But
one moment in his company and she’s in danger of losing her heart. There are
secrets aplenty at Brentfield, enough to challenge any lady’s sensibilities,
even those of Hannah’s protégé, Lady Emily Southwell. As events unfold at
Brentfield, Hannah quickly learns that loving David comes at a price, to her
future plans of being a portrait painter, to her position as a teacher, and to
her very life.
This clean romance with a touch of
romantic suspense was previously published by Zebra as
A Dangerous Dalliance
.
Five Stars! “I enjoyed this
enchanting romantic suspense tale which was full of twists and turns
throughout. I found this novel hard to put down and was up into the wee hours
of the morning reading.” –
Affaire de Coeur
“I loved this book. The Colonial
Upstart of an earl paired with a lovely art teacher is a brilliant stroke and
the writing matches her plot . . . This is a page turner, and I defy a reader
to put the book down until finished.” – Noted Regency author Emily Hendrickson
“Regina Scott’s irresistible
characters will win your heart.” – Eloisa James,
New York Times
bestselling author, on Regina Scott’s
Starstruck
To my dear friend and sister in all but blood,
Nancy Robak, until we see each other again at the Lord’s table
To Hannah Alexander, people existed to be painted. Every
wise old crone with a youthful twinkle in her eye, every stout gentleman of
military bearing, every wide-eyed child with an endearing smile was a moment to
be captured, recreated, embellished until the essence of them shone from her
canvas for all to see. When she looked at those around her, she saw them frozen
in a moment of perfection that illuminated their souls.
The farmer carrying a lamb home on his shoulders at sunset
was the Good Shepherd. The girl flirting with the farmer’s son outside church
on Sunday was Aphrodite Taunting Hephaestus. The other teachers at the Barnsley
School for Young Ladies gossiping about their charges’ parents were The Three
Witches from
Macbeth
. She thought she would be completely happy if only
she could spend her days with her paint box and easel. And now, after years of
dreaming, it had looked as if she might actually attain that happiness.
If only Miss Martingale hadn’t insisted that she play
chaperone first!
She should have known something was wrong when she’d
received a summons to the headmistress’s office. Miss Martingale rarely
addressed her subordinates unless something dire had happened. She could only
hope that she had received no complaints against her teaching. She was aware
that often she held control of her students by the slimmest of threads. She had
never mastered the technique that so many of the other teachers used, namely of
intimidating her pupils with her authority. At five feet, four inches, she did
not tower over any of them. To make matters worse, she was cursed with a
clear-skinned, oval face; lustrous black hair; and large doe-like eyes that
seemed to encourage condescending smiles rather than strict obedience. Her nose
was short and pert, and her mouth tended far too often to smile. No, she had
not been the most awe-inspiring of teachers, although her students did seem to
learn their lessons, and more than one parent had complimented her on the girls’
knowledge of art.
But it seemed that Miss Martingale had had other thoughts
besides Hannah’s performance on her mind.
“Priscilla Tate’s aunt, Lady Brentfield, has graciously
invited her niece and three friends for Easter holiday,” she had proclaimed
without roundaboutation before Hannah could so much as take a seat in the
hard-backed chair in front of the desk that spanned the rear of the room. “I
need you to chaperone.”
Hannah had felt herself pale but had forced her dutiful
smile to remain in place. She had always been able to reasonably discuss things
with her employer. Surely Miss Martingale would not send her off simply to
gratify the whims of four students.
“But I know nothing about deportment, Miss Martingale,” she
pointed out. “As you know, I was raised quietly in the country.”
The large, dark-haired woman shrugged. “That is not
important. Lady Brentfield can be counted on to enforce the social niceties. I
need someone to chaperone them in the carriage on the ride to and from the
estate, and Lady Brentfield has requested that we provide someone to assist her
in monitoring the girls’ activities when she is unavailable. A woman as busy as
Lady Brentfield cannot be expected to watch them every minute.”
So, Hannah was just supposed to be a nebulous body, at the
beck and call of the socially astute Lady Brentfield. If the assignment had had
any appeal before, it had none now. Hannah had only met Lady Brentfield a few
times when the woman had visited the school, usually when she was fetching or
returning Priscilla from some event.
But Hannah knew that her ladyship was a powerful influence.
Miss Martingale gloated over any little kindness from the lady, and many of the
teachers watched from the upper windows of the school to catch a glimpse of the
latest styles her ladyship wore. Hannah could not imagine anything more
mortifying than having to flutter about in the wake of this fashionable lady,
her own lack of polish and ignorance of the upper class showing with each
movement.
“Lady Brentfield will surely want someone with whom the
girls are comfortable,” she protested. “I barely know Priscilla and her
friends.”
“That is as it should be,” Miss Martingale said with a regal
incline of her broad head. “You know my policy that students and teachers
should not fraternize. I have observed that you keep a distance from your
students, which I applaud. I have also observed that they tend to ignore your
commands. This trip will give you an opportunity to practice your disciplinary
skills.”
Practicing her disciplinary skills was the last thing on
Hannah’s mind, as was spending a week in close company with her students. The
distance Miss Martingale had noted was there for a reason. She was trying to
hide the fact that her students scared her not a little. The oldest was only
three years her junior, after all. Her fear was easy to hide when she could
focus on art, but she was sure they’d see right through her if she was forced
to interact with them socially. Besides, spending a week at the Brentfield
estate would delay her most recent commission.
“But I’ve just agreed to paint Squire Pentercast and his
family,” she explained to Miss Martingale, hoping the mention of the local
landowner would inspire sufficient respect to allow her to remain at the
school. “I’m sure one of the other teachers would love to go.”
“Most have arranged to go home to their families,” Miss
Martingale replied, her considerable bulk beginning to tremble, most likely in
indignation that Hannah continued to question her judgment. “And I cannot spare
Miss Pritchett; she is needed to finish the preparations for the graduation
ceremony. Besides, Lady Brentfield was most emphatic about the type of teacher
she wanted: quiet, unassuming, dutiful. I was certain you fit that
description.”
Nearly every teacher at the Barnsley School fit that
description, but Hannah could see by the steel in Miss Martingale’s eyes that
further argument was useless. She considered for a moment tendering her
resignation right that moment, but she needed her final two weeks of salary and
all of her commission money if she was to have enough to live in London.
She had been planning the move for years, traveling to the
metropolis to become a portrait painter. For so long it had seemed outside her
grips. She had no formal training, after all. But just three months ago, the
Earl of Prestwick had inquired whether the school’s art teacher would be
willing to attempt a portrait of the dowager countess. It was well known about
Barnsley and the surrounding villages that Lady Prestwick was a gentle,
retiring soul, easily frightened by the world around her. She was seldom seen
outside the gates of her fine estate. Hannah had been more than willing to
paint the beautiful countess, who put her in mind of Elaine in the legends of
King Arthur. Elaine had pined away for her love of Lancelot, and it seemed to
Hannah Lady Prestwick’s sad smiles mirrored a similar melancholy. The resulting
painting had been heralded by the earl and the local gentry alike as a fine
work of art.
Since then, Squire Pentercast’s lovely wife had requested
that Hannah undertake a painting of their family. In addition, one of the more
influential of the parents, the Duke of Emerson, whose daughter Lady Emily was
one of Hannah’s favorite and most promising students, had suggested that she
paint him on his return from Vienna. As the squire’s wife was well known in
social circles, and the duke was a famous diplomat, Hannah was assured of at
least the beginnings of a promising career. It was more than she had ever hoped
for. She had planned to finish her painting of the Pentercasts by Easter and
put in her notice to Miss Martingale shortly thereafter. With the money from
her two commissions and what she had saved working at the school for the last
three years, she would have enough to live frugally in London for a year,
building her reputation and her clientele. For the first time in her life, her
dreams were within her grasp.
All she had to do was survive this trip to Brentfield.
“I tell you it will be a week to end all weeks,” Priscilla
Tate declared as they settled into the carriage her aunt had sent for them, a
shiny black with silver accouterments. The silver and black emblem on the side
had told Hannah that those must be the Brentfield colors. She had tried not to
be concerned that the emblem on the Brentfield crest was a wild cat rending a
stag in twain.
Now Priscilla positively preened as the coach set off from
the school. With the girl’s golden blonde hair and emerald eyes, she was by far
the loveliest of the graduating class. She was also one of the least popular,
for all her considerable family connections. Priscilla had a way of lording her
beauty and accomplishments over her classmates. Hannah had long ago begun to
think of her as Hera Among the Lesser Goddesses.
“Your aunt is beyond generous!” This from Daphne Courdebas,
the most athletic of the graduates. Everything about Daphne was long and lean,
from her limbs to her light brown hair. And all of it had a tendency to tangle
unmercifully in her unbridled enthusiasm for life.
Amazon in Training
,
Hannah thought.
“And her still in mourning! How kind!” Ariadne Courdebas put
in. At a year younger than her sister, Ariadne could easily have been from
another family entirely. She was round and baby-faced, with lank brown hair,
great vapid blue eyes, and a mind that latched onto every inch of printed
material it could find, from plays to poetry and all types of facts. Recently
it had been medical treatises, which had sent the girl to the nurse a dozen
times over the last month over some imagined disease. It was amazing how truly
distress could be mirrored on that round face, like Lot’s Wife on Looking Back
at Sodom.
“She’s no doubt destitute in sorrow from the loss of her
husband and stepson,” put in Lady Emily Southwell.
The Priestess of Delphi
,
Hannah thought, her artist’s mind painting the picture. Lady Emily would have
made such a marvelous seer. Her deep-set brown eyes, black frizzy hair, sallow
complexion, and pinched nose were perfectly matched to her dismal view of the
world. She even wore the dark colors and austere tailoring, like the brown silk
gown that was nearly as depressing as Hannah’s stiff black bombazine uniform.
Nonetheless, Lady Emily was the only one of Hannah’s students who had shown the
least promise as an artist at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. Hannah was
sure that it was her own recognition of Lady Emily’s promise, as well as
Hannah’s talent, that had resulted in Lady Emily’s father, the Duke of Emerson,
suggesting that Hannah paint him as well.
“The new earl will prove compensation,” Priscilla predicted
with an arched look.
Lady Emily leaned closer. “Even after their mysterious
deaths? I heard the rumors.”
Surely this was unseemly conversation for four young ladies.
“Girls,” Hannah started.
They ignored her.
“Rumors?” Ariadne asked, sitting up straighter where she was
squished between her sister and Lady Emily. “What sorts of rumors?”
Lady Emily’s look darkened. “The previous earl and his heir
were killed in a coaching accident eight months ago. I heard Farmer Hale
telling Cook when he brought the milk that he heard from one of the tenants of
the estate that it was no accident. When the grooms investigated, they found
the carriage had been tampered with. Charles Talent, Earl of Brentfield, and
his son Nathan, Viscount Hawkins, were murdered.”
“Girls,” Hannah said more forcefully, a tingle running
through her.
Ariadne gasped. “Were there no investigations? Did no one
come forward with evidence?”
Priscilla tossed her curls. “There was no need for evidence.
It’s all a Banbury tale, I promise you. Lord Brentfield and his son were well
liked, and there was no one in line to inherit. There wasn’t even another heir
in England. When the solicitors traced the family lineage, the fellow they
found to inherit was so far removed that he couldn’t possibly have planned a
murder. He’s a Yank, of all things.”
The other three girls looked so suitably amazed by this fact
that Hannah was able to turn their conversation onto another tact.
But as the short journey wore on, the girls grew more
restive.
“We shall all be crushed inside this carriage,” Lady Emily
promised after they had bumped some distance from Barnsley. “He’ll roll it on
the next curve, you wait and see.”
“Lord Brentfield’s coachman seems quite competent,” Hannah
assured her, only to bite her lip as the carriage hit another rut.
“I think I shall be sick,” moaned Ariadne Courdebas beside
Lady Emily. Her gloved hands hovered in front of her trembling lips, and Hannah
felt her own stomach lurch just looking at the girl’s pale face. To her relief
and the girl’s embarrassment, all that erupted was a ladylike hiccup. Ariadne’s
face turned a healthy pink that matched her pink pelisse.
“I think you’re simply excited,” Daphne exclaimed on the
other side of her, bouncing so vigorously with each bump that she set the blue
silk ribbons on her pelisse fluttering. She enthusiastically poked her sister
in her well-padded ribs, sending Ariadne into Lady Emily and Lady Emily into
the equally well-padded wall of the coach. Lady Emily glared, and Ariadne
clutched her side as if she’d been kicked by a horse. Hannah sighed and uttered
a prayer for patience.
“Well, you should be excited,” Priscilla said with a sniff
where she sat beside Hannah. “If it hadn’t been for the countess’s invitation,
you’d all be cooling your heels at the school during Easter holiday.”
All three girls colored at the reminder.
“It was very kind of her ladyship to invite all of us,”
Hannah told Priscilla, determined to put on a pleasant face. “I’m sure a week
at Brentfield will be most educational.”